


We Can’t Always Belong To a Place In Time

by thesaddestboner



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Brain Injury, Detroit Red Wings, Gen, Non-Famous Family Members As Characters, Permanent Injury, Triple Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-03
Updated: 2008-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It never got any easier.  Time</i> didn’t <i>heal all wounds like some ancient philosopher, long-dead, had once said.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	We Can’t Always Belong To a Place In Time

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in response to a fic that was posted on [](http://2minsforslashing.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**2minsforslashing**](http://2minsforslashing.dreamwidth.org/) a while ago which dealt rather callously with Luc Bourdon's tragic death. I'm not trying to say I did it better, really. I just wanted to see what I could come up with.
> 
> Title from “From What I Once Was,” by Neverending White Lights.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

It never got any easier. Time _didn’t_ heal all wounds like some ancient philosopher, long-dead, had once said.

After a while, sure, time took away the sharp sting of grief, dulled it into something manageable, something one could live with, but it didn’t erase it altogether. It couldn’t. It wasn’t possible.

Every day was a little reminder of what he—what they, really—had lost in that car accident, in that maelstrom of a Friday the 13th all those years ago. He lost his youth, his vigor, his lust for life. She lost her husband. Anastasia lost her father.

He could have been a legend, but because of the accident, was reduced to being merely great. Those who spoke of him now didn’t remember the powerful defender he was during his prime. They remembered the trembling, frail man who could barely stand without assistance. They remembered the shattered glass and crumpled white limousine, accordioned into a tree. It was all they remembered, all they saw when one said his name these days.

Irina was, in some small, secret chamber in her heart, thankful Vladimir didn’t remember anything of the accident, and remembered very little of what went on before it. He knew from watching old videos with Anastasia that he was a tough man, a man opponents feared, but he didn’t remember that tough man. It was, for him, like watching someone else on the television screen. He couldn’t remember the man he used to be.

Irina supposed the crippled shell that now encased him was as much a shield as it was a prison. It hurt her to think of it that way, because _she_ remembered. Every time she looked at him, she saw who he once was. She saw his bright, smiling face and his sharp, keen eyes superimposed over this mask he now wore, had worn for the last eleven years.

That was why the pain never truly went away. Those who remembered what once was would always feel the sting of that loss. It never went away. It never would.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
